


broken twigs and bread crumbs

by brian_zeller



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, hannibal owns a diner, theres sort of a case happening but its not really important, uncomfortable descriptions of will graham eating, will is a local police officer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 16:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brian_zeller/pseuds/brian_zeller
Summary: “Are you going to try?” Hannibal said, pale fingers stretching out and grabbing onto a fork. It cut through the piece of pie like a chainsaw would to a body. Easily and over before Will could blink, but with flecks of dark red outlining the scene of the crime. Will dared to turn his head, mouth opening as the fork moved closer and closer towards him. He felt like a child, patronized and yet equally cared for. He closed his mouth around the fork, metal scraping his teeth and cherries staining his tongue a deeper pink.Will hummed around the food, savoring the juiciness as he softly crushed crust between his teeth. Hannibal’s eyes traced the bobbing of Will’s throat as he swallowed. It felt perverse, it felt romantic.It was just a quick stop in a diner one night, it wasn't supposed to cultivate tothis.





	broken twigs and bread crumbs

**Author's Note:**

> this idea came to me while i was in a diner a few months back, oddly enough. i just cant seem to stop wanting to write about will graham eating with copious sexually charged adjectives! i had fun writing this though, enjoy!
> 
> title from "baby don't do it" by shannon and the clams. 
> 
> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/makingfunofyourface/playlist/7GOShatJ7bcRXyhkmz2nLY?si=plJHmnfgR7KO6bwwAnfcbQ)

Will needed a break. He needed a cup of coffee and maybe even a meal. His bones felt vaguely stitched together, the long night shifts making him feel less and less like a human as the weeks went on. He rolled his neck, joints popping and creating a symphony of aching as he drove through the darkness. Cicadas buzzed, a warm breeze sifting through his hair, cooling the sweat off his face. His hand hung languidly out the window as he passed pedestrian street sign after pedestrian street sign. The radio carried a soft tune of static, he turned the knob down. Will sighed, speeding up on the vacant road, chasing the memory of how he used to feel alive. 

Despite the rolled down window sweat continued to pour down his temples, dropping down his neck and hanging in the creases of his uniform. His tan slacks momentarily lit up in orange as he drove under the backstreet’s singular street lamp. Finally, up the road a burning red light offered a mirage of rest. 

Gravel crunched under his tires as he pulled into a late night diner. His engine rumbling and cooling off as he pushed through the metallic doors and was awashed no longer in late night navy’s but liminal creams and checkered print floors. He stood by the front, hands awkwardly crumpled in his pockets. The joint was littered with a few customers — a man in a bizarrely heavy jacket bitterly looking at his fries, a mother and a soundly sleeping toddler, a quiet group of what Will could only describe as neo-beatnik’s poured over tattered books. Will felt out of place, as he often did, but even more so with his shiny new police badge and the radio still attached to his hip. His boots squeaked extra on the clean floors. 

“Booth or bar?” The hostess asked, bringing him out of his fog. She tapped a singular menu with her fingers, nails barely long enough to produce a noise. 

“Bar’s fine,” Will replied, mouth dry. He hadn’t spoken in hours, last one to leave the office. A stack of papers with gruesome pictures as his only company. The waitress led him to an empty expanse of cream countertop. 

“Can I start you off with anything to drink?” She asked as Will sat down on the maroon barstool, menu slid in front of him. 

“Cup of coffee, please,” He responded, avoiding meeting her eyes. She left, moving around to the other side of the counter. Will flicked through the menu, tired eyes stretching over the options. He heard the hissing of a coffee pot being picked up, stray drops burning and sizzling, the quick whooshing of the liquid filling a cup. The waitress came back, carefully setting a full cup down in front of him. He hummed, hoping that was enough thanks. 

“Ready to order?” She asked, flipping over the notepad for a bare sheet. 

He closed the menu, “What would you recommend?”. He looked at her as she thought it over, her red lipstick was fading, a few hairs sticking up. She was pretty in the sense that made Will feel like he’d be sane if he was with her. Maybe in another lifetime, with another version of himself. 

“The reuben is my personal favorite,” She replied. “Homemade sauerkraut, local butcher supplies the corned beef, the owner even makes his own bread. Plus, a side of our steak fries and special sauce.” 

“That sounds good,” Will said. “Thanks, —” 

“Alana,” The waitress, Alana, said. Her face gave away nothing but a neutral, teetering on groggy, expression as she took down his order and went back to the kitchen. Will stretched out, sipping on his coffee. He closed his heavy eyes, taking in the soft atmosphere as he waited for his meal. The jukebox was playing a familiar tune, reminding him of the scuffed shoes and scraped knees of his childhood. He remembered his dad humming off-tune to the song, working on fixing the motor of small fishing boats in the Louisiana heat. He opened his eyes and took another gulp of the coffee, trying to tune out the chorus. 

Will leaned forward, hand steady on the cup as he peered into the kitchen. He could smell the grease splatters, the peanut butter going into a milkshake, the barbecue sauce slathering the pulled pork, ready to be heaped up onto a bun. Like a dog, he began to salivate, realizing just how hungry he was from a long shift. He saw flashes of what he assumed to be the chef, and possibly the owner, shimmying a pan over exposed flame. Will leaned back, gulping down more of his coffee — a rich, almost velvety blend, it awoke even his bones, blended into his bloodstream — and thought that the diner he stumbled into, just off the side of the road, was more sophisticated than he would’ve assumed. 

A hand darted out from the kitchen and rang a bell, alerting Alana of a ready order. Just as quick as it appeared the hand disappeared, going back to work, although no new orders besides Will had gone back. 

“Here you go,” Alana said, setting down Will’s plate in front of him. “Let me know if you need anything else.” She set down a glass of water and a wrapped straw in front of him. 

“All good, thanks.” He reached for his plate, stuffing a fry into his mouth. He picked up the weighty sandwich, perfectly buttered and grilled bread transferring oil to his fingertips. Bits of corned beef filling his mouth, sauerkraut juice oozing over his tongue. Goddamn, he thought, this might be the best reuben he’d ever had. He set it down, wiping off oil with his wrist. He generously dipped a particularly golden and crisp steak fry into a mystery sauce, coating the gold with a pale orange. He bit down, mouth immediately pleased with a warm concoction he couldn’t place, he just knew it was delicious. 

He took his time savoring the meal, slowly nibbling at the diminishing edges of the sandwich. He picked up a helping of corned beef that fell onto his plate, still warm. Soft, inoffensive tunes filled the spaces of the diner. Jazzy, upbeat, mellow songs accompanying his chews. The chatter died down as guests left, off to enjoy the sunrise and the beginnings of a new day. Will felt, sipping the last dreg of coffee down, as if he could never be one of them. It’d been a long time since he’d enjoyed any aspect of his life.

“How was the meal?” Alana asked, sliding the check over to Will.

“My compliments to the chef,” Will replied, taking a twenty out of his wallet. “Keep the change.”

He stood up, swiping one last fry before he headed back to his car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of a figure, almost skeletal in nature, peep their head out of the kitchen. Must be the chef, he reasoned. He grabbed his keys, jukebox music fading out into the background, a little jingle from the bells above the door wishing him a goodbye. He backed out of the gravel parking lot, heading back on the road towards his house. He’d have to remember to revisit Lecter’s Diner when he got another chance.

\-----

“Morning, handsome,” Beverly greeted Will as he walked through the door to the station. He gave half a grunt and a nod in her general direction. She scoffed, an almost fond smile on her face as she crossed her arms. Will felt sore all over, a restless night of tossing and turning on his rock-hard mattress. He maybe got three hours of sleep, all nightmare accompanied.

He dropped into his chair, throwing his bag onto his desk. “Where’s Jack?”

Beverly sat on the corner of his desk, eyes on the door and taking a long gulp of coffee out of a styrofoam cup. “Out on a call with Zee and Price. I think they’re questioning a possible witness.”

“Mm,” Will hummed, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. Seemed like he’d have a good half hour before he’d have to get started on real work.

“Rough night?” Beverly asked, turning to look at him. She took in his dark circles, the wrinkles in his uniform. She could smell an extra layer of cologne and deodorant on him but he was still tinged with sweat at the surface. “Late night partying, Graham?”

He choked out a laugh, “Yeah. You know me.”

She smiled, “Gruesome murder cases can’t keep you down. Out every night tearing it up on the dancefloor at Frankie’s Pub.” She laughed. “How _ do _you do it?” She dared to poke him in the ribs, causing him to flinch. Her smile dropped and she went back to her desk.

Will sighed, eyes still shut. He felt himself drifting off against his will, on the brink of sleep when he heard booming footsteps on the linoleum. Jack was back. Will immediately sat up and began rifling through his bookbag, as to appear busy.

Jack headed straight towards the white board in the back of the cramped county office. The board had messy, scribbled notes in a multitude of colors, yarn lines connecting photos of seemingly unconnected missing persons, and a splattering of coffee stains thanks to a time that Jimmy tripped over Brian’s foot. Jack wasn’t happy with that one, but he wasn’t known to be overwhelmingly happy to begin with. Jack set his wide brimmed hat down on an empty desk and stared at the board in front of him.

Brian and Jimmy walked to their respective desks, twin meek looks upon their faces. Will presumed the questioning didn’t lead anywhere promising. Beverly rolled up to Brian’s desk, whispering questions as he wiped a nervous line of sweat off his brow, his eyes occasionally flickering to Jack’s back. Jack’s hands were calmly clasped behind his back, stance wide and exuding power. Brian had a right to be scared, since he was the rookie on their small team.

“Will,” Jack half-shouted, causing Beverly and Brian to cease their whispers and return to silent work at their desks. “Come here.”

Will quietly walked to Jack’s side, feeling all too much like a dog running to its owner with its tail between its legs.

“Tell me what you see here,” Jack commanded, crossing his arms.

Will took in the half hazard muck of what was once a white board and tried to think. There, both truthfully and sadly, wasn’t much to work off of. A few photos – some of middle-aged women, some young men, one of an old man – some note cards with various ‘clues’ (or the closest thing to clues they could find) – old man was suffering from stage three lung cancer, a mom was diabetic, one of the twenty-something year old’s attended college a few towns over and was back for the weekend. Will felt like he was picking at straws, constantly coming up with the shortest, losing one.

“Well?” Jack interrupted. Will flinched, blinking rapidly and rubbing at his neck.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Jack. There’s no pattern, at least not one that’s going to be easy to find.”

Jack put an awkward, harsh hand on Will’s shoulder. He felt like he was being patronized by his father, was suddenly back to being ten in the Louisiana bayous and fixing up a dingy and doing all the steps wrong.

“Keep looking,” Jack said, taking his hand back and walking into his office. His door shut with a loud thud. Will couldn’t help but sigh.

“Here.” Jimmy slid up to his side, handing Will a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” Will replied awkwardly, sipping it fast. Jimmy was nice enough, had been an employee for the county since before Will had joined. He was practically Jack’s right hand man on a good day. Though, since Brian had joined last May, he’d been more glued to his side. Beverly tried to get Will to join in on a bet but he had yet to get back to her. That was last May.

“How’d the questioning go?” Will asked. “Any leads?” Will hoped Jimmy would be more helpful than Jack.

Jimmy let out a short, wheezy laugh. “A sharp turn onto Wasted Time Avenue. I think the kid, tweaked out of his mind, just wanted a chance at his fifteen minutes of fame.”

“When we showed up he asked ‘where’s the cameras?’,” Brian added, joining Jimmy’s side. “Think he thought the news team was coming.”

Will shallowly laughed. “That explains Jack’s mood.” He wasn’t really worried about his boss hearing him through the thin walls. If anything, he welcomed a write up and being sent home early. Brian and Jimmy went back to whispering between themselves, leaving Will to contemplate the board. He rubbed his temples, this wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Will glanced up at the clock, Jack’s blinds were shut. Maybe he could sneak out for a long lunch.

\-----

The bell above the door jingled, causing Hannibal to look up from his cup of tea. He watched from his emerald vinyl booth in the back, as the policeman took a seat at the bar. Hannibal was the only one in the diner at the moment, sans the policeman. He slowly set his china tea cup down, the last drops sufficiently floating the remaining tea leaves. Rolling his sleeves up, Hannibal headed back behind the counter to greet the policeman, who was currently perusing the menu.

“Afternoon,” Hannibal said, “May I offer you a drink?”

“Cup of coffee,” he replied. “And some orange juice.” 

Hannibal nodded, leaving the man to ponder in peace. He slowly made his way back to the fresh pots of coffee, footsteps silent against the linoleum. If he was stalking his prey he’d be guaranteed a catch. He poured the coffee into a mug and set it down on a napkin in front of the customer, who wordlessly accepted it without a glance at Hannibal. Hannibal went back for a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.

“Our special today,” Hannibal said, setting down the glass, “is a bacon cheeseburger, with imported asiago cheese and pork for the bacon supplied by Verger Farms.” 

The man rubbed his chin, “Sounds delicious. Side of potato salad, please.”

Hannibal gave the briefest of smiles as he wrote down the order, “Name?” he asked, despite the empty seats surrounding them.

“Uh,” he coughed. “Will.”

Hannibal stared at Will, who didn’t return his glance, before heading back to the kitchen. He heard the squeak of the bar stool, his flicking up to see Will move towards the jukebox. Hannibal tossed a patty down as he watched Will’s thumb click through album selections. Hannibal soaked in the slope of Will’s nose, the yellow tint his skin had from the jukebox light, the tightness of his uniform around his back as he hunched over. Hannibal briefly hummed, flipping the patty.

The song changed, old and reminiscent of the luxury of a youth Hannibal didn’t get to have. Perhaps it was a song of boyhood for Will, memories of first kisses and humid summer nights. Hannibal checked the grilling bacon, eyes still darting to Will’s profile. He was back at his seat, throat exposed as he gulped down the juice. Hannibal bit his tongue, stacking the patty onto a bun and dressing it. He caught Will’s tired eyes for a split second as he scooped the potato salad.

“Here you go,” Hannibal announced, setting the plate down in front of Will. “You changed the song.”

Will looked up, eyes landing just below Hannibal’s own. “Oh, yeah. Had a spare quarter.” His hands reached out and dragged the plate towards him. “Thanks. Looks good.”

“Mind if I sit?” Hannibal asked, watching Will’s mouth envelop a spoonful of potato salad. “It’s painfully slow today.” He flashed a toothy, wolf like smile. “I’m Hannibal Lecter.” 

“Hmm.” Will swallowed. “Oh yeah, go ahead.” His hands wrapped around the burger. A little bit of sauce slid down, in-between his pointer finger. Hannibal watched it, then turned his eyes back to Will. Will paused before taking a bite, “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re an officer,” Hannibal began. “Are you on the case for the frequent murders happening in the area?” He sat down in the stool to Will’s right, hands neatly folded in his lap and back straight as an arrow.

“Yeah,” Will answered, mouth full of burger. Hannibal resisted a grimace. “Whole county is on it.”

“Yes. Must be hard.” Will barely met his eyes. “I have nothing but sympathy for the families. Often at times like these I thank whatever God is out there that I am a cook. I do not envy your job, Will.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah.” Will swallowed. “Well, there’s pros and cons to anything.”

“Yes.”

Will nodded, setting down his burger. “Meal’s great. My compliments to the chef.” Will let out a rough chuckle.

“Thank you, Will.” Hannibal tried the name again in his mouth, quickly growing accustomed to the taste. It was unmatched the way it made him ache to drool. 

Will tilted his head slightly, jaw opening to take a particularly large bite of the burger. Hannibal stared, drawn to the small town cop in a way he hadn’t been drawn to anything real in years. Not since the first knife slid into Mischa’s leg, not since he hung her up to roast in the stone shed of their family home. There was a slight bit of juice from the burger on the corner of Will’s mouth. Hannibal grabbed Will’s discarded napkin.

“May I?” He asked Will, who had wide eyes as Hannibal gently dabbed the napkin to the corner of Will’s lips. Cleaning him up. Will had the profile of a deer right before it got shot, Hannibal found it endearing. 

“All better,” Hannibal said, eyes squinting slightly. Will swallowed around the burger before getting up. He reached for his wallet, scrambling.

“Don’t worry.” Hannibal’s eyes crinkled, resisting the urge to smile. “It’s on me.” 

Will just nodded, breath picking up and eyes looking anywhere but Hannibal’s face. “Thanks.” He turned and raced to the door before Hannibal could say anything else, the bells giving more of a goodbye than Will had. Hannibal let himself smile, he knew Will would be back. He’d make sure of it. 

Hannibal picked up the last remnants of Will’s forgotten burger, taking a bite and tasting a small amount of Will’s saliva that was left behind. 

——- 

“Is Hannibal here?” Will asked Alana, leaning over the counter and acting as nonchalant as he could. There was a bead of sweat gathering at the back of his head, under his curls. His eyes moved over her face, saw her biting her cheek to stop herself from smirking. 

“Yeah, he’s in the back finishing up an order,” She replied. “Want a cup of coffee while you wait?” 

Will nodded, sitting down at the counter. “That’d be great.” 

Alana smiled before heading to get him his coffee. He sighed, dropping his head into his hands. Maybe he shouldn’t have come, he should’ve just left the situation alone and never return to the diner. Go back to his normal life of having barely one friend and solving crimes, handing out speeding tickets and letting his talent go to waste. That’s how he liked it and now he messed it up. 

He jumped when Alana set down his coffee.

“Sorry,” She half whispered when Will winced. He forced a smile, but it came out more of a grimace. 

He held the steaming mug in his hands, forcing them to stop trembling. He closed his eyes once more, tried to steady his breathing and fucking _ relax _. 

“Will,” Hannibal announced. “So good to see you again.” 

Will looked up, meeting Hannibal’s unreadable eyes. He wondered if he’d ever understand them. Hannibal’s hair was slicked back, not a speck of oil or grease on his white apron, only slight pink around the cuffs of his shirt where they met his wrists. He was pristine, he was a statue of a man. He scared Will. He scared and fascinated Will, much like the outline of a body at a crime scene. 

“I,” Will tried, voice creaky and unsure. He licked his chapped lips and started again. “I wanted to say sorry about the other day. I, I shouldn’t have run out like that. It was, it was—” 

“Rude,” Hannibal supplied. 

“Yes,” Will agreed, nodding slowly. “Rude.” 

“All is forgiven, Will.” Hannibal, Will presumed, looked as sincere as he could manage. “Can I interest you in some pie?” 

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Will set down his coffee, his hands starting to tremble again.

Hannibal smiled, disappearing into the kitchen once more. Will drummed his fingers against the counter, itching for comfort. He heard Hannibal’s footsteps return too soon for any comfort to wash over him. 

Hannibal slid the slice of cherry pie across the smooth countertop, the plate wobbled as it came to a stop in front of Will. Not a single berry was out of place, crust flaky and buttery. Will stared intently at the blood red color, the ornate bluebell design on the rim of the plate. Stared anywhere but Hannibal’s intrigued expression as he sat down next to him at the bar. The jukebox was playing a soft, hazy melody, reminiscent of doo-wops and the golden era of jazz, but Will couldn’t focus on the sultry, smooth words. Instead he was bombarded with the scraping of forks on plates, the sucking of the straw as one of the customers was getting the last of their malt, the quiet giggling of Alana as she whispered declarations of love to Margot over the phone, all while twirling the cord on her pointer finger. Couldn’t focus anywhere but the calm breathing as Hannibal took in his aftershave and cologne. 

“Are you going to try?” Hannibal said, pale fingers stretching out and grabbing onto a fork. It cut through the piece of pie like a chainsaw would to a body. Easily and over before Will could blink, but with flecks of dark red outlining the scene of the crime. Will dared to turn his head, mouth opening as the fork moved closer and closer towards him. He felt like a child, patronized and yet equally cared for. He closed his mouth around the fork, metal scraping his teeth and cherries staining his tongue a deeper pink. 

Will hummed around the food, savoring the juiciness as he softly crushed crust between his teeth. Hannibal’s eyes traced the bobbing of Will’s throat as he swallowed. It felt perverse, it felt romantic. 

“Delicious,” Will choked out, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. There was a flicker of a smile on Hannibal’s face as he set the fork down. Will’s hand darted out and landed awkwardly on Hannibal’s knee. Hannibal didn’t flinch, hand didn’t twitch as his eyes stayed focused on Will’s. 

“I’m still perfecting it,” Hannibal replied. “Your kind words mean a lot, Will.” 

Will just nodded, knowing he couldn’t reply even with a gun under his chin. He felt stuck, but he didn’t want to move away from the hold that Hannibal had on him. It felt strangely familiar, strangely comfortable as Hannibal picked up the fork a second, a third, a fourth time until the plate held nothing but the tiniest fragments of what was once a slice of pie. 

——-

Beverly walked into Lecter’s diner an hour before closing. She knew Will, in his own clipped way, raved about the food and more importantly, the chef. Remembered him saying how different the meat tasted, weakly chalking it up to quality. How different the owner was, weakly chalking it up to personality. She observed the well maintained diner, a few booths were filled were single patrons or quiet groups. In the back a man sat, sucking loudly on his milkshake and sauce stained hands flipping through a book. At the end of the counter a woman with bright curls was studying a fry, laptop open in front of her. 

She took a seat at the counter, sneaking a glance into the kitchen where a hidden figure in white was standing still. She felt eyes on her despite the fact the figure’s face was obscured. 

“Hi, welcome to Lecter’s diner, what can I start you off with?” A woman asked her, Beverly glanced at the nametag she wore — Alana. She set down a glass of water in front of Beverly. 

“I’ll keep it simple,” Beverly responded, easy smile on her face. “A club sandwich and a strawberry milkshake.” 

“You got it,” Alana said writing it down. 

“My friend, Will,” Beverly continued before Alana could leave, “raves about this place. Had to check it out for myself.” 

“Will,” Alana said, pensively, “Mop of curls? Local police? Not fond of eye contact?” 

“That’s him,” Beverly said with a chuckle. She took a sip from her water, looking around again. Alana left to put the order in. Beverly chewed on some ice, her foot tapping against the bottom of the counter. She perused the menu, passing the time until she heard the clatter of a plate. 

“A club sandwich and a strawberry shake,” the man, Beverly presumed to be Hannibal, said. 

“Looks delish, chef,” Beverly replied, pulling the plate towards her and picking up the pickle that dressed the plate. “Uh, Mr. Lecter?” 

“Thank you,” He replied, voice clipped and face unresponsive. 

“My friend Will comes here a lot,” She continued, taking a bite of the pickle. She saw Hannibal give the briefest of winces, she bit back a smirk. “Loves it here, I can see why.” She met his cold stare, almost daring him to respond. 

“I’m glad to hear,” Hannibal responded cooly. “Will has been a steady customer this past month.” 

“Yeah, he said the sandwiches were — and I quote — to die for.” Hannibal gave nothing more than a singular chuckle. Beverly continued on, weeks of digging through past disappearances to build a profile, she had her suspicions. 

“You get your meat from Verger farms, right?” 

“Yes, we have a working partnership,” Hannibal said. Beverly was having a hard time figuring him out. She took another bite of the pickle, then a long sip of her shake. “Very astute of you to know—”

“Beverly Katz.” She held out her hand, Hannibal shook it out of societal obligation. “Eh, comes easy after years working as a detective.” 

“You must work with Will then,” Hannibal said. Beverly thought she saw his eyes barely light up at the mention of Will for a second time. 

“Yep,” Beverly finished awkwardly. “Well, I’ll let you get back to the kitchen. Looking forward to my meal.” She smiled at him. 

“Enjoy, Ms. Katz,” Hannibal said, before turning and heading back into the kitchen. She still felt hidden eyes on her as she worked her way through the sandwich. The turkey tasted off to her. 

——-

Beverly was too curious. Hannibal watched behind blinds, eyes shining in the darkness. She didn’t see him, working her way around the building with nothing but a flashlight.. It was after closing. She barely made a sound, feet not even scraping the gravel.

——-

Beverly had been missing for five days now. Will felt sick driving past Lecter’s. He pressed the gas pedal farther down, speeding past the diner.

——- 

“Hiya Will,” Alana greeted him. He forced a smile, stripping off his coat as he took his seat. Ever since he’d first began visiting Lecter’s Diner he’d sat in the same seat (bar, third towards the end, just the right amount of visibility into the kitchen and the door).

“How’s Margot and the baby?” Will asked, fingers drumming against the counter. He felt itchy, he felt just on the brink of snapping. He didn’t look into the kitchen, not yet.

“She’s good,” Alana replied, face instantly warming at the thought of her wife and son. “He’s so calm, we couldn’t have asked for a better son.”

Will kept the smile plastered on his face. Maybe in another life he’d yearn for people like Alana, for something steadier. His fingers began drumming harder, internal ticking resonating louder than it had in the parking lot. His eyes briefly glanced to the kitchen, a flash of a forearm was present. The sound of knives and the sizzling of the stovetop. He stopped his fingers and forced himself to meet Alana’s eyes.

“I think Hannibal is just finishing up your lunch,” Alana said, the hint of trepidation in her voice. Still a blind trust tinging her words as the left her tongue. “I don’t know how he knew you were coming, but –” She shrugged, finishing her sentence in the middle of a thought. Will nodded. She left to go check on another customer.

Will waited there in his stool, feeling more like a death row prisoner being strapped to an electric chair than a man on his lunch break waiting for a sandwich. He gulped down the water Alana had set down as he walked in. Hannibal emerged from the kitchen, plate resting on his upturned palm. Will swallowed a melting ice cube awkwardly.

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal set the plate down before him. It was a club sandwich. Will felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His mouth felt dry. “Today I have a turkey club sandwich, Havarti cheese from a local dairy farm, and my own homemade mustard. House fries and my special, secret sauce.” He sent an unnerving wink to Will.

Will picked up the sandwich, fingers threatening to shake. Hannibal watched him, pale eyes boring into Will’s. Will opened his mouth, slowly wrapping himself around the sandwich. His teeth caught turkey and bread between his teeth, tugging at it. It—it was good. Great. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Hannibal didn’t blink, watching Will swallow his first bite. God, it tasted like turkey. Turkey, mustard, strong, creamy cheese. But, Will took a second bite, it had a hidden flavor. No, no it couldn’t be. It—they hadn’t found Beverly yet. No, it’d been a week. More than a week, since. Since the disappearance. She, she wasn’t dead. Hannibal – he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t – Will swallowed – he wouldn’t do that to him. Will sourly thought, the meat wouldn’t be fresh.

In the back of his mind he thought of the profile Beverly was putting together. Remembered seeing red lines and Hannibal’s face — younger in the photo — next to a few others. Apparently, Hannibal was a runaway. His sister had died. The FBI thought he might’ve had something to do with it. But, Will took another bite, it was never proven. 

“It’s so good,” Will said. He felt like screaming, his voice catching in his throat as he set down the sandwich. “Unlike anything I’ve had.” He was so fucking parched, he needed to drown himself in water and the security that Hannibal wouldn’t – wouldn’t do that to him. He needed to be sure, he needed something, anything. He needed –

Hannibal picked up a baby pickle that dressed the plate, not replying to Will’s compliments. Will opened his mouth, letting Hannibal slide it into his mouth. Will bit down, salty sweet washing over his taste buds. Hannibal kept it there, let Will nibble down and crunch it. Will continued until he could taste the pads of Hannibal’s fingers, until his tongue was touching soft skin and the pickle was gone. Will swallowed air, drawing himself back.

The jukebox changed the song, Hannibal’s smile never faltered. He took a chip for himself. It was so strange, Will thought, seeing how the simple act made Hannibal look human for the first time.

Will was damned. He picked the sandwich back up, taking another bite. 

**Author's Note:**

> reblog [here](https://andybbernard.tumblr.com/post/186730772145/broken-twigs-and-bread-crumbs-pairing-hannibal)


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